


Oaklawn Cemetery

by Doitlikeagreaser



Category: The Outsiders - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, death mention, lots of inner dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 17:52:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14574360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doitlikeagreaser/pseuds/Doitlikeagreaser
Summary: It’s taken Ponyboy Curtis months to gain the courage to see Dallas and Johnny again—and a certain Shepard boy decides to join him.





	Oaklawn Cemetery

It was cold, the day I had finally mustered up the courage to visit my late friends. I distinctly remember Darry hollering at me to put on a coat before he left for work. Not in an angry way, just concerned that I’d forget and freeze to death. If this had occurred months ago, I wouldn’t have understood that was the case like I do now. 

Darry had pressed the issue of an escort, but Sodapop and Steve had work and Two-Bit promised his mom that he’d take care of his little sister, Kathy, who had an awful cold. Thankfully, I had found a suitable substitute.

After lots of persisting on my part, Darry had allowed me to visit none other than Curly Shepard in the reformatory. I just wanted to tell him what had happened after Johnny and I disappeared. I don’t know why I did it. I guess I just needed a friend, someone who couldn’t understand what I was going through.

I didn’t intend to ask Curly to do such a thing as visit my dead friends but he had insisted.

“I can take you,” he had offered simply, as if he were agreeing to play cards instead of visit a cemetery. The same coolness that I heard when he had suggested we burned holes in our skin using cigarettes. “I’m getting out early for good behavior, you know,” he told me and I couldn’t help but let out a short laugh--something I hadn’t been able to do in a long time.

So, on the day of Curly’s release, Soda had Steve cover for him briefly at the DX while we waited for the fifteen-year-old Shepard’s return. And glory, did Soda look stiff. Sodapop didn’t like Curly that much--in fact, I think he was one of the only people Soda wasn’t keen of. Right behind most Socs. Whether that was because Curly and I were so close or the youngest Shepard’s reputation, I wasn’t sure. When Curly arrived, he just walked in and leaned against the doorway, his dark blue eyes twinkling as he wore his signature smirk. His black, leather jacket and crossed, sweatband wearing arms covered his strong but lanky build. Straight from the cooler and Curly looked as tuff as ever--though, his black hair was short, curled and ungreased, courtesy of the judge. Curly was far from Sodapop-handsome, but he and his older sister Angela were real lookers. Both the spitting image of their fearless leader and brother, from a younger time long forgot. 

“You ready to go, Baby Curtis?” 

Soda seemed to scowl, which went unnoticed by Curly. I slipped on Johnny’s jeans jacket as Darry would have wanted and went over to the doorway to join Curly, who eyed the jacket. 

Soda and Curly then exchanged glances, almost like an unspoken understanding, whatever it may have been. No sarcastic remarks were shared, just looks shared between my tense brother and laid-back-as-always friend.

“Don’t worry, Soda-Can,” Curly promised. “I’ll bring him back safe and sound.”

I don’t think that calmed Soda’s nerves but it sure did mine.

The Oaklawn Cemetery was walking distance from the house and was located in Tulsa’s East Side. Not long after Johnny and Dally passed, we had all decided to pool in our money to purchase a small plot of land there and a grave. It was where Mom and Dad were buried too. Soda and I had managed to convince the others to purchase the empty spot next to them.

We walked in silence for a while, which led to my thoughts trailing until Curly spoke up.

“Where’d you get that jacket?” he asked nonchalantly, though his features told me it had been bothering him.

I took a quick glance towards the jeans jacket before looking at Curly. “Johnny’s folks were throwing his stuff out one day while  I was on a walk. I snatched it when they weren’t looking.”

Curly’s lips curled up into a smile, seemingly fond that I stole something. Though, the glint in his dark eyes suggested a hint of jealousy. “Got a cancer stick, Pony?” he mused, though I didn’t find it funny. Nonetheless, I fumbled with the box of Kools in Johnny’s pocket and handed one to Curly, who accepted it with a grin. He lit it, took a puff, then handed the cigarette to me. We continued walking and quietly exchanging the burning tobacco until it was merely a bud. Curly crushed the cigarette under his boot at the gate of the cemetery. I let out a shaky breath, knowing too well that I had been holding this off for lord knows how long. Curly simply opened the gate and moved by to let me through. 

_No going back now,_ I regarded.

Upon reaching the small grave, I sat down in front of it with Curly plopping down to the left of me. I stared at it for a while, not really knowing what to do. So I just read the stone grave. It was nothing fancy, it just said _“Dallas Winston and Johnny Cade”_ followed by the last couple of words uttered by my late best friend. I just looked at the grave for a while, remembering two boys who were far too young to die. One; full of hatred of the world but yet able to find good in the other; who through the hardships remained gold until death and even after. I remembered Johnny Cade, a brave, gallant, young soul who risked his life so that others--who would never even remember his act of chivalry!--could live. I remembered Dallas Winston, who wasn’t just a hood. He felt too violently and cared too much not mattered what he told himself and others. He was a greaser. Through and through.

I then found myself thinking of boys--boys like Dally Winston and Tim Shepard, who were labelled criminals by society when it was society’s poster children who were the criminal! I, myself, had believed it--though looking back, I should have known better.

I then realize, with mock adrenaline, that beside me was one of those boys. I had always known that Dallas Winston was doomed to a hoodlum’s fate, but somehow it had never occurred to me that the handsome boy--who was only a year older than me--might be destined for the same. My intrusive thoughts stirred something inside me that I hadn’t felt in a long time. Not when Bob was killed, not when Johnny and Dally left us, then I had just felt numb. What I felt now would have been clear as day if it hadn’t been so long.

I was afraid.

I feared, not for myself, but for the rebellious boy beside me. Before, I could register what I was doing, I found myself collapsing on Curly’s chest in a heap of sobs.

He could have pushed me away. He could have made fun of me for being so weak and done what society expected him to do, to be the juvenile delinquent everyone saw him as. 

He, instead, put his arm around me and spoke softly--like Soda did for Steve the night of the rumble. This was the Curly Shepard that I knew. The blue-eyed boy who was incredibly liberal. Who talked big and mouthed off to authority figures because it amused him. The boy nicknamed for his wild hair, who idolized Tim and stood up for Angela even though he was her kid brother. Charles ‘Curly’ Shepard was no hood and neither was Dallas Winston. They had both acted the way they did to survive. They put on a tough façade so no one knew how broken or lost they truly felt. Johnny had known. Johnny had known exactly what had lied underneath Dallas Winston’s act, like how I knew what was underneath Curly Shepard’s. I vaguely wondered if Sodapop put on a brave face too. I was aware that Soda felt torn when Darry and I used to fight or how lost he felt after hearing of Sandy’s infidelity. Did he feel as though he had let Mom and Dad down? Did he not think he was as worthy or smart as Darry or me or even Steve? Did Soda, my beloved and happy-go-lucky brother, feel as though he had to mask his worries because we wouldn’t understand? Or did selfless old Sodapop not want to trouble us?

Still lost in thought, staring at the grave and practically in the youngest Shepard’s lap, I felt Curly rather roughly grab one of my hands. I didn’t look, but he seemed to be observing it. I heard him curse what was supposed to be an apology as he brushed my old cigarette burn with his thumb, his hands cold to the touch. Our coats both smelt of smoke--and Curly’s vague whisky from what I assumed as his failed liquor robbery. 

“Please, Curly, don’t go like Dally did, I don’t think my heart could take it…” I pleaded softly, a part of me wishing my words went unnoticed.

“Of course, kid,” Curly promised genuinely. “But you’re freezing. We oughta get you back before Soda-Can decides to kick my head in.”


End file.
